Angel's Embrace

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Thanks, Michael. Couldn’t have had a better father if I’d picked him myself.”

  Billy turned toward the house before Malloy could see his eyes go wet.

  It was almost humbling, how few things he had to pack: some clothes, mementos of Christmases past—and Eve’s painting, of course. He’d been with the Malloys so long, he didn’t even have a trunk; Christine had taken the ones they’d left Richmond with.

  While Mercy was insisting he take one of her trunks, she was folding the patchwork quilt she’d made for his sister one Christmas—the one he’d had on his bed ever since Christine left it behind.

  “This has seen a lot of wear, but it’ll still keep you warm—and remind you of us,” she mused. “I’ll get you some towels and sheets, too, dear. I can’t imagine anything you’ll find in that poor, abused house will be fit to use now.”

  Why did her thoughtfulness make this so much more difficult? Billy could see Malloy’s point: better to keep this process rolling now that he’d put it in motion. Their noon meal tugged at him, because the three girls had spent their morning with Temple, writing him letters they’d sealed for him to open when he arrived in Richmond.

  Somehow he ate. Somehow he loaded his belongings on the buckboard and hitched Pete to it. Snowy and Spot panted, pacing behind the seat: They knew things were changing in a big way when they sniffed the trunk, and saw everyone else getting into the carriage for a ride to town. They knew, too, that Boots and Hattie were locked in the shed: the other two dogs howled their protest as the buckboard rolled toward the road, so they yipped in reply.

  Asa rode with him—maybe the most difficult thing of all, even though each separate piece of his departure had hit him hard.

  “You’s on your way now, Billy,” the old man murmured when they were rolling down the road. “I always knowed you’d do us all proud, ’cause you’s got the heart of Jesus hisself a-beatin’ in your chest. I told myself, that night your brother come at you a-shootin’, that if you didn’t make it, well, I didn’t want to, neither. Too durn old to be losin’ you thatta way, you see.”

  “Too feisty is more like it,” Billy quipped, but his heart was in his throat. The old man was looking like a sock doll, worn out from loving and giving. But his eyes crinkled when he grinned.

  “Feisty ain’t a bad thing,” Asa said, chuckling. “Where would Miss Eve and her baby be if she weren’t a feisty one?”

  The question kicked him in the heart: Eve Massena had come to Abilene on just the strength of her belief that he’d do the right thing on her behalf.

  And here he was. Telling himself he was going home, to that place she’d painted, when the Malloys all knew why he was headed there.

  Somehow he said good-bye to them all at the train station, hugging them hard. It was a blur, this process, and Billy suspected that was the only way he got through it.

  Somehow he got the buckboard, Pete, and the dogs situated in a stock car—and got the collies to quit barking. Now that he’d made this life-altering decision, he wished some of Spot and Snowy’s exuberance would rub off on him. He hoped that someday soon, he’d smile again and know he’d really done the right thing.

  And then, somehow, he sat in his seat on the train, waving through the dusty window at those faces he’d see in his dreams and fondest thoughts, no matter how far apart they were: Mercy in red calico, her brown hair tied back, her face alight with the afternoon sun and an inner glow that had always been his guide . . . Solace standing with her feet shoulder-width apart and her arms crossed, staunchly refusing to wave good-bye, beside Lily, who held Grace’s hand as they both wiggled their fingers at him . . . Temple, behind them, her chocolate face a beacon of hope and faith . . . Asa who alternated between waving and wiping his wet face with his shirtsleeve.

  And Michael. The man who’d stood in as his father so willingly and stalwartly; the best friend and teacher and benefactor he’d ever had. Michael Malloy just watched him with those haunting eyes, clasping his hands in front of him, until the train carried him out of sight.

  Billy pulled Pete to a halt at the end of the lane that evening, quivering on this brink of a dream come true—a dream that remained as hazy and mysterious as the twilight in the overgrown trees ahead. Though he wasn’t one to imagine ghosts—and he had no reason to believe Wesley’s disgruntled friends were lying in wait for him—driving up to the dark, deserted house made his heart pound.

  He was glad Snowy and Spot were with him. As though they knew they’d reached their destination, the dogs hopped down from the buckboard and circled the yard, sniffing the weeds and the old piles of horse manure. Out of habit, Billy went around to the back to enter through the kitchen. The border collies trotted through the shadowy rooms ahead of him, alert to strange new scents, glancing back now and again to be sure he was coming.

  His footsteps echoed in the empty rooms as he found lamps and lit them. He hauled his trunk up the carpet runner of the staircase and entered the bedroom he and his brother had shared for half their lives—where Wesley had hidden to shoot at him and Eve. The window was broken—the room was a mess, like the entire downstairs—but Billy was too weary to worry about any of that right now. He stripped his bed and made it up with the sheets Mercy had sent along. The clean scent of Kansas sunshine and her kindness soothed him after a painful day.

  He made the other bunk up, too, and then tossed Wesley’s filthy sheets—and the whiskey bottles under his bed—out the hall window.

  The room felt a lot homier then. And when Spot and Snowy hopped onto that other bunk, he smiled.

  “We’re gonna make it, pups,” he said, scratching both of their heads. “Get a good night’s sleep, ’cause we’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

  When he took off his shirt, the stiffness of its pocket reminded him of the letters the girls had written for him. Billy hesitated, holding the three folded pages in his hands, knowing these messages would probably make him miss the Malloys and their home more than he already did. Maybe he’d endured enough for one day—

  Oh, just one. They made a special effort on these. Solace and Lily and Grace are kneeling at their bedsides right now, praying for you.

  He opened the one on top and recognized Lily’s delicate penmanship; imagined her studious expression as she composed this note while Temple smiled over her shoulder.

  Dearest Billy,

  We’ll miss you so much! But when I feel sad about it, I’ll send my angels to check on you and report back to me. I don’t tell everyone about them—their names, or how many there are. But I know you’ll believe that they’re real, and that they’ll be our guides—just as you have been my very own angel all my life.

  Dang . . . already the tears were running down his face! He wiped his nose on his sleeve and kept reading, although the words looked cloudy now.

  Take good care of yourself, Billy. I know you’ll watch over Eve and Olivia, too! You’ll be in my prayers, every single day. I’ll ask God to shine a light on your path when you feel lost, and I’ll ask Him to hold you in His strong, tender hands as you bring life back to your boyhood home.

  We hope to see you again very soon!

  Love, Lily

  Billy let out a long sigh. He closed his eyes and imagined Lily’s sweet smile and golden hair—her astounding voice when she sang at the wedding and read at Wesley’s graveside.

  Goose bumps ran up his arms. He detected a flicker of movement near the ceiling—her angel, come to check on him? Or was it because the lamp oil was old? Because he had moisture in his eyes?

  He smiled. What would it hurt to believe in Lily’s vision of things unseen? If angels could tolerate this house right now, well—he could use their heavenly company!

  Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he unfolded the next note. Just the sight of Solace’s bold, squarish letters perked him up:

  Dear Billy,

  Well, I’ll be stuck here without you and Joel. Good thing I’ve got Emma’s dogs. I fully intend to come to your place and hel
p out someday real soon. Don’t forget! You promised to pick me out a good yearling and help me train it! I’m holding you to that!

  Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. But it’s already slow here and you haven’t even left yet. Your Solace

  His chuckle made the dogs raise their heads to look at him. “Well, pups, we never doubt what that girl’s thinking, ’cause she pretty much blurts it out!” he told them. “Soon as we get things squared away here, I need to find her that horse. Can’t let those girls think I’ve forgotten ’em. Can’t let Solace settle for just any ole yearling . . .”

  Your Solace, he read again. And yes, she would be. When things didn’t go well here, or when he had doubts about this overwhelming task he’d taken on, recalling that tomboy’s grin and husky voice—the sight of her standing on Mr. Lincoln’s bare back while he cantered around the corral—would give him the strength to pick up and go on.

  Again Billy mopped his face. Then he opened the last note.

  I love you, Billy. Gracie.

  That did it. He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, and gave in to the tiredness and the tears. Spot and Snowy hopped off the bed to nudge him, bright-eyed and whimpering. He blinked his eyes clear, stroking their silky ears.

  “Well, there’s no gettin’ Grace wrong, is there?” he murmured.

  Snowy’s mostly white face eased into a grin that meant she was way ahead of him, but that he’d finally figured out something important.

  Billy chuckled, at himself mostly. Good thing he knew he couldn’t mess up God’s grace, no matter how he bungled things. The thought made him smile as he tucked those precious notes into the night stand drawer. He felt completely wrung out now, but there was one more thing he wanted to see before he turned in.

  Billy propped Eve’s painting on the nightstand between the two narrow beds. He studied it by the lamp’s light, his pulse pumping steadily as he gazed at the trumpet vines growing up the proud white porch pillars. It was too late in the season to know if those fiery-red poppies had survived the years of neglect, and would greet him next spring. Just another thing he’d have to take on faith—or fix, if it didn’t turn out the way he was hoping.

  There might be a lot of things that didn’t turn out.

  “But I’m back,” he said as he snuffed out the light. “And someday this place is gonna look like a home again.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Eve, I—I can’t thank you enough,” Virgilia breathed. She gazed at the framed painting of her former home as though she yearned to walk inside and find it the way she’d left it—with her family and furnishings intact, as they’d been before the war.

  Eve certainly appreciated that sentiment. Even if life wasn’t really simpler before they’d all been upended by Border Ruffians and tragedy and scandal, it seemed that way in light of what they’d endured since.

  “Someday the place will look this perfect again, sweetheart.” Carlton Harte spoke with the confidence of a man who saw his promises through. “With Billy back, and with our help, this proud house will be a home again.”

  “Billy’s back?” Eve shifted the baby onto her other shoulder to cover her amazement. Her . . . disappointment. “I—I thought he would’ve come to see—how long’s he been in town?”

  Carlton’s grin told her he’d let a cat out of the bag. Accidentally on purpose.

  “About a week now,” his redheaded wife replied with a feline smile. “He wanted to get things cleared away before you found him out. He didn’t tell me, either, dear,” she added demurely. “Carlton saw him at the bank, discussing the details of who owns the Bristol place now that . . . Wesley’s gone.”

  “It’s all taken care of.”

  Harte smiled as though he, too, could accomplish things without telling all he knew. He took a money clip from his coat pocket. “And it’s my pleasure to be the first purchaser of your paintings, Miss Eve. I’m spreading the word about your talent and your new studio, so it won’t be long before you have clients waiting in line for your work! Why—”

  Her new studio! Eve couldn’t stop grinning every time she thought of it: The Hartes had allotted her a small room at the front of the hotel they’d just purchased. It had windows to let in the light—and so passersby could see enough of her work on the walls, or in progress, to pique their interest from the sidewalk.

  “—the new president at the bank saw this painting of the Bristol place, and wants to surprise his wife with one of their home,” Virgilia’s husband went on. “It’ll soon be all the rage to have an Eve Massena work on the wall!”

  She gaped at the money as he counted it into her hand. “But Mr. Harte, I only charged you—”

  “Never you mind, my dear. You underestimate the value of your work—and I consider this an investment in my granddaughter’s security.”

  “Listen to him!” Virgilia teased, tweaking Olivia’s nose. “We all know Grandma was behind this, so she could play with you while your mama paints!”

  Eve chuckled, tucking the money into her reticule. It was wonderful to see this woman dealing with the death of her son by diving into a fresh endeavor: Virgilia had honored Carlton’s request to keep her colorful clothes, and was hiring painters and a new staff to run the hotel they’d renamed The Crystal Inn. She was a woman with a purpose now—as though entertaining Olivia wasn’t a full-time pursuit—and Eve felt inspired by the way she defied convention to live life on her terms.

  “And have you seen Billy?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. “If he’s there alone, I’m sure—”

  “I’m trying very hard not to interfere with his plans—”

  “She means take over,” Carlton teased.

  “—and frankly, I can’t bear to set foot in that house again until he’s set it to rights.” Virgilia’s expression tightened with her effort not to cry. “I have a new life now, with a wonderful man and an inn to revive, and there’s no going back. Billy’s there with my blessings.”

  Blessings. Now there was a word Eve had never expected from Billy’s mother—a word that applied to her own life, of late, as well. Though living with her mother again—having a baby in the house—wasn’t always as orderly or harmonious as either of them liked, she at least had a place to stay until she could move out on her own.

  Or into the Bristol place. As the new Mrs. Bristol.

  She blinked. That idea had hovered in the back of her mind for weeks, but she hadn’t seen much hope for it until . . . but it was too soon to think seriously about Billy. She had a daughter to care for—paintings to plan! Carlton and Virgilia were walking with her toward the door.

  “I’m so glad you like the watercolor,” she repeated—and on impulse, she waved Olivia’s little arm at them. “Tell Grandma and Grandpa we’ll see them tomorrow when Mama comes to do her painting.”

  The baby bumped against her, chuffing, as though she wanted to play with her grandparents now.

  Once the door closed behind her, however, Eve let the news about Billy’s return tingle through her. She stood in front of the hotel for a few moments, wondering what to do about it: If Billy was intending this as a surprise for her, she didn’t want to spoil it. Mother’s lectures about proper deportment concerning men rang in her ears, warning her to be patient this time—to let Billy come to her, instead of egging him on, the way she had Wesley.

  After all, Billy was crazy about Olivia. Sheer loneliness would bring him to see the baby pretty soon.

  But Eve wanted him to want her! And she wanted to share her news about the studio and her paintings, without someone—namely Virgilia—beating her to the punch. There were just times when Billy Bristol, dear man that he was, needed a little nudge!

  And as she walked down the sidewalk, she saw the enticement that would guarantee his attention: Beulah Mae’s pie shop!

  One step inside the door, and she closed her eyes. The aromas of warm fruit and sugar and cinnamon took her back to when the cook had made the Bristol house smell this heavenly every day. Eve just
stood there, inhaling the dear, familiar scents. Her mother had never been one for sweets, and she herself had spent little time in the kitchen, so fresh-baked pies seldom graced their table.

  “Well, now! If that ain’t the cutest little baby I’s ever seen!”

  Eve burst into a smile. Beulah Mae was coming out of her back room, looking as if she’d just stepped to the Bristols’ cookstove to take her pies from the oven: a broad, substantial woman still, she wore a flour-sack apron pinned to the ample bosom of her red dress, and the red plaid kerchief tied around her head looked crisp and neat.

  “Beulah Mae! It’s been so long—”

  “Oh my gracious! Why, you’s the Massena girl, ain’tcha?” Eyes the color of chocolate pie widened as the woman grinned at her. “And my stars, but that baby’s the very likeness of—”

  “Wesley Bristol. A—a mistake on my part, but I wouldn’t trade this baby for the world now,” she replied quickly. “I guess you heard we—we buried him a couple weeks ago?”

  “Oh, my—I’s so sorry, missy. Always afraid that boy would come to a sorry end, ’specially after he started runnin’ with the likes of them James brothers,” she murmured. “Never knew when to quit with his orneriness, even when they’s kids.”

  Beulah Mae wiped her hands on a towel, and then held them out toward Olivia. “But this little red-haired angel, why, she reminds me more of Billy! Look at that precious face—and that dimple!” she exclaimed. “Sweet Jesus, this takes me back a lotta years, I can tellya.”

  “About twenty.”

  “Lordy, but I misses that family.” The old woman laughed when the baby hiccuped and gurgled at her. “I’s heard some wild stories ’bout Virgilia, but now I sees she’s back with a new husband, settlin’ in to run the hotel. And you tells me Wesley’s passed now. But what about my Billy? And Miss Christine? She was a firecracker, that’s for sure!”

  “She lives in San Francisco with her husband. Designs gowns for wealthy ladies—”